


if you'll stay for the night / 'til the sun comes up

by gutsforgarters, kattyshack



Series: Bethyl Holidays Fest 2019 [7]
Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Zombie Apocalypse, BHF2019, Collaboration, F/M, First Kiss, Making Out, New Year's Eve, New Year's Kiss, New Year's Resolutions, Older Man/Younger Woman, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-19 10:53:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22009828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutsforgarters/pseuds/gutsforgarters, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kattyshack/pseuds/kattyshack
Summary: Who needs party poppers when you can ring in the New Year with a bottle of champagne, crippling anxiety, and the urgent need to confess possibly unrequited feelings before they drive you up the fucking wall?for the UBFL holiday event: new year's eve: 'champagne' + 'midnight kiss' + 'resolutions'(title from "do you believe in love," by huey lewis & the news + "boogie shoes," by kc & the sunshine band)
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Beth Greene
Series: Bethyl Holidays Fest 2019 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1529537
Comments: 29
Kudos: 76
Collections: Bethyl Holidays Fest





	if you'll stay for the night / 'til the sun comes up

**Author's Note:**

> given our mutual obsession with one another, an eventual collab was inevitable. happy new year's, y'all. 
> 
> xx maj & gus

Daryl’s late.

It’s not like Beth wasn’t expecting this; to say that Daryl isn’t one for parties is to say that the ocean is wet. He probably wouldn’t’ve agreed to come at all if not for Mr. Grimes steadily chipping away at his resolve over the last month and a half, so it figures that he’d drag his feet just to spite Rick for talking him into it in the first place. In all likelihood, he’ll walk in the front door five minutes before midnight, and if anyone says anything, he’ll just shrug and mumble something about technically making it on time. If he feels like explaining himself at all, that is. Probably he’ll just tell them to fuck off.

So is Beth surprised? No. Is she disappointed? Yeah. Anxious? Definitely. 

Or she _was_ anxious, anyway, until the demi-sec kicked in and dampened her nerves. Now she’s just kinda sleepy, a little fuzzy, and well on her way to _pissed._

“Stupid jerk,” she mumbles, tipping back the champagne bottle and taking a long swallow. She stopped bothering with a glass about an hour ago — _was_ it an hour ago? Much like her mind, linear time is starting to get a little fuzzy around the edges — because her fine motor skills are just compromised enough that she’d spill all over herself if she tried, and because if she’s gonna get good and hammered, then she might as well cut out the middleman.

She didn’t start the night _intending_ to get hammered, mind you. That was never her endgame. She was _going to_ limit herself to one glass of champagne, just a little something to help calm her nerves, but then the minutes multiplied into hours, and one glass turned into two, then three, then —

Well. It’s like she said. She gave up on drinking out of a glass a while ago, so it’s not like she has any way of keeping track. She won’t know for sure how much she’s drunk until she hits the bottom of the bottle.

“Who’s a stupid jerk?”

Beth lowers the bottle and wedges it between her thighs. Wipes her mouth, tilts her head, and squints at the open archway. The kitchen’s lit up brighter than the rest of the house — too bright, even, making her eyeballs throb like it’s already tomorrow morning and she’s already hungover — and it takes a fair bit of blinking to convince her vision to come into dubious focus.

“Glenn.” A dopey smile makes itself at home on her face — she likes Glenn; he’s one of her favorite people — only to collapse into a frown. “What’re you doin’ in here?”

“Maggie wanted a cheese platter.” Glenn sticks his hands in his pockets and comes up to the kitchen island, eyes flickering from Beth’s face to her lap. “Guess I don’t have to ask what _you’re_ doing out here.”

Glenn’s doing some frowning of his own, now, and that should probably concern Beth. Probably _would_ , if what he’d just said wasn’t so funny. “A cheese _platter_? Jeez, that baby’s gonna eat y’all outta house an’ home, an’ it ain’t even been born yet.”

“Thanks for the concern, but I think we’ll be okay.” Glenn plucks up the champagne bottle and holds it out of Beth’s reach when she grabs for it, folding his other hand over her shoulder and steadying her when she sways. “Jesus, Beth, how much of this stuff have you had?”

Excellent question. She drums her heels against the side of the island. Shrugs. “Dunno.”

Glenn tips the bottle and squints down the neck like he’s trying to gauge how much is left. “What’d you do with the cork?”

She knows the answer to _that_ question, at least. “Threw it out.”

Glenn lowers the bottle and stares at her. “ _Why_?”

That’s a stupid question if Beth’s ever heard one. “Didn’ need it anymore.” You only need to keep the cork when you plan on saving some for later, which she hadn’t.

Glenn stares at her some more. There’s a hard quality to the look that she rarely sees from her sweet-natured brother-in-law, and it’s enough to burn through at least some of the fog enveloping her brain and give her a distinct sense of foreboding.

It’s _not_ enough, however, for her to anticipate what happens next. And what happens next is that Glenn goes over to the sink, upends the bottle, and pours what’s left of the champagne down the drain.

“ _Hey_!” Beth slaps the countertop and raises her voice, but she’s not quite drunk enough to try climbing down unassisted. Breaking her neck would just be insult to injury — or maybe injury to insult? “I ain’t finished with that!”

“Tough shit,” Glenn says mildly, rinsing out the empty bottle before dropping it into the recycling bin. He turns to Beth, crosses his arms. The look on his face is nothing but patient, and that’s somehow worse than if he were yelling at her. “Y’know, you’re lucky it wasn’t Maggie who caught you like this. Or Rick.”

Beth rolls her eyes, but that makes the room tilt on its axis, so she cuts it out in a hurry. “Maggie ain’t the boss’a me. An’ what’s Rick gonna do?” She snorts, giggles. “Arrest me?”

Except he could, is the thing. She’s two years off from twenty-one, and while Rick’d likely turn a blind eye to her drinking a glass of champagne in a safe setting like this, he probably couldn't ignore her getting falling-down drunk right in front of him, even if he _has_ known her since she was in Pampers. 

Okay, alright. Admittedly, drinking while underage in a cop’s house probably wasn’t the best idea she’s ever had.

“I don’t think he’d arrest you,” says Glenn. “But he probably would tell your dad.”

Well, that one hurt. Beth crosses her arms, mirroring Glenn, but she doubts he’s doing it to hold in something that feels like it’s gonna spill out.

“Are _you_ gonna tell him?” she asks, forcing the question past the thick lump in her throat. She wouldn’t even be able to get pissed off if he did. She wouldn’t have the right.

But Glenn shakes his head. Even smiles a little, although his eyes are still hard with disappointment. “Nah. I figure the hangover oughta be punishment enough.”

Beth groans and presses the flat of her palm to her forehead. Just the word itself is enough to give her the ghost of a headache. “Shut up.”

“So who’s a stupid jerk?” Beth lowers her hand and looks a question at Glenn, who shrugs. “I asked earlier, but you never told me.”

Did he? She’ll have to take his word for it. “I ain’t tellin’ you.”

Glenn blinks, the disappointment that was lingering in his eyes appearing to fade a little. “Huh? Why not?”

“‘Cause you’re a blabbermouth.”

Glenn’s lips twist into a wry smile. “Don’t sugarcoat it or anything.” He uncrosses his arms and comes up to Beth, cupping her elbows and giving her a gentle tug. “Alright, you lightweight, up and at ‘em. I’m taking you home before your sister sees you like this.”

Beth’s stomach swoops when Glenn helps her down from the counter, but she snags two handfuls of his t-shirt and digs in with her heels as soon as her feet touch the floor, buzz fading under a surge of panic. “I can’t leave! Daryl’s not here yet!”

Glenn’s eyebrows swing toward his hairline. “You were waiting for Daryl?”

Oh.

 _Crap_.

Beth slumps into Glenn with a sigh, forehead coming to rest against his collarbone. She’s heard of alcohol loosening people’s tongues, but she’s never gotten drunk before, so she’s never experienced it firsthand until now.

That’s it: she’s officially swearing off drinking. And, hey. She’d probably have a better shot at fulfilling _that_ resolution than seeing through the other one she was aiming for, at least.

And now she’s getting depressed. Great.

“Yeah,” she mumbles, probably tracking spit all over Glenn’s collar while she’s at it. Cat’s out of the bag, so why bother trying to shove it back in? “He’s late.”

“Uh, Beth?” Glenn takes her by the shoulders and eases her back far enough to meet her eyes. He looks a little amused, a lot _be_ mused. “Daryl got here, like, ten minutes ago.”

He — _huh_?

Beth gapes up at Glenn, alcohol-soaked brain turning in clumsy circles. “ _What_?”

“Yeah. Probably closer to fifteen by now, actually.”

Beth’s fingers clench, putting wrinkles in Glenn’s shirt. “Take me to him.” It’s not a request.

Glenn’s expression turns dubious. “Uh, to be honest, I don’t think I should be taking you anywhere but _home_.”

Beth _yanks_ on Glenn’s shirt, forcing him to bend down until they’re nearly eye level, close enough for the alcohol fumes on her breath to blast across his face. He grimaces, wrinkling his nose.

She doesn’t even blink once when she tells him, “Glenn _Rhee_ , you’re gonna take me to Daryl _right now_ so I can give that big dumb _jerk_ a piece’a my mind.”

Glenn shakes his head, and Beth’s grip tightens, but then he stands up straight and unhooks her fingers from his shirt. “Alright, alright, Jesus.” It’s hard to catch what he says next, since he mumbles it under his breath, but Beth would swear it’s something along the lines of, “Better him than me.”

* * *

Swear to fuckin’ god, if Beth ain’t here, he’s turning around and walking right the hell back out. 

The only reason he’s here at all is ‘cause of her — not because of anything she’s done, no, but because Rick dangled her attendance at his New Year’s Eve party in front of Daryl’s face like a carrot on a string, and sooner or later Daryl couldn’t keep pretending that he didn’t care. He _does_ care. 

It’s why he showed up, late and kinda pissed off — about paced a hole through the floor of his apartment, he was overthinking it so much — but at least he’s _here_ , right, and Beth’s nowhere to be seen. That doesn’t mean she’s not here at all, and frankly he’d been too anxious to look around much when he got here all of ten minutes ago, but… 

_But._ Daryl swipes a beer out of one of the coolers in the garage, pops the tab and takes a long draw to steel his — his _resolve_ or whatever, Jesus. He’s not planning on getting lit or nothin’, he just needs something to help ease him off his own chattering nerves. 

This whole thing is goddamn stupid as hell. _New Year’s resolutions._ Daryl snorts at the memory of what Rick had said to him, about how it was good a time as any to quit pussy-footin’ around and _do something_ about what he wants. Hold himself accountable or some shit. Honestly, Daryl doesn’t really get it. If you really wanna do something, then you should just do it without waiting around for some arbitrary date before you get your ass in gear.

Thing is, though, he can’t seem to take his own advice, ‘cause he hasn’t done jack shit about Beth except stare at her more, and if anything that’s just. _Worse._

So maybe Rick’s got a point, after all.

Shit. He could really go for a smoke right about now. Could probably get away with it, too, he’s the only one in the garage right now, but… 

He huffs a short, irritated breath, and leaves the squashed pack of cigarettes where they are in his pocket. Nah, if Maggie so much as catches a whiff of smoke, she’ll murder him in some kinda righteous hormonal rage. What’s more is that he’d deserve it; kinda wants to throttle his own damn self right about now, so he couldn’t blame Maggie for the compulsion ( _hypothetical_ compulsion but, what the fuck ever). Bad enough he’s about to make a move on her sister, and he’s gonna light up around a pregnant woman, too? 

Forget it. He’ll make do with his beer, or a couple, if he needs ‘em.

He downs two and nurses a third in the relative quiet of the garage, hearing but not really listening to the swell of party sounds coming from inside. Loud music and indecipherable conversation, bursts of half-drunk laughter that rock his nerves like an unexpected gunshot. He’s trying to _think_ , but all he’s got in his head is the white noise of the party and a whole lotta nothing else. 

He has no fuckin’ clue how he’s gonna do this. 

“Fuck it,” he mutters to himself. Drains the last dregs of his beer, tosses the bottle into the recycling, and hopes for the best because no way is he gonna think up any kinda smooth way to go about this.

Daryl’s not _smooth_ , not by any stretch of the imagination, and he’s never been all that _imaginative_ , neither. He can work well on instinct, sure — maybe even works best on instinct — but he hasn’t got that now, not with Beth. All he’s got are twitching fingers and a stomach full up on nerves and a self-destructive streak a mile long and a fuckin’ _time limit_ now, too, ‘cause telling her how he feels is his _resolution_ for the year, and he might as well get that shit over with right out the gate. 

So. Fine. You know what? Fuckin’ _fine_. He’ll go back inside, find her, pull her aside so nobody else can overhear how badly he’s bound to fuck this up, and he’ll — he’ll —

Jesus Christ, who the hell knows. Maybe he’ll just kiss her and see if that works out for him, because god knows _talking_ never does. 

Maybe she’d even like that. Think it’s romantic or somethin’, if he just pulls her off to some corner and shoves his inexpert tongue into her pretty mouth. 

Daryl grimaces at the thought, ‘cause it don’t _sound_ romantic, not when he thinks about it like that. He can hope sheer enthusiasm makes up for it if he slobbers all over her or bites her lip or something, and Beth’s real sweet, she wouldn’t make him feel bad about it. 

Chances are he won’t have the guts to pull that shit, anyway. Probably he’ll get her alone and then just stare at her like an idiot, same as always, ‘til she takes the lead and asks what’s on his mind.

 _You_ , he could say. Likely would just blurt that out, if he was alone with her for five seconds and consequently loses his head entirely. Might be for the best, though, if it happens like that.

He’s not gonna find out like this, just moping around in the garage, gnawing his thumbnail down to the quick. So. Yeah. Fuck it, right?

Daryl shoves his hands into his pockets to keep from chewing at his nails anymore, shoulders his way through the garage door and kicks it shut behind him. The house is on the dim side — for _ambiance_ or whatever shit, he doesn’t know why anybody throws a party in the first place, it’s a damn nightmare — but now that Beth’s firmly at the forefront of his mind, Daryl’s not surprised that she’s the first thing he sees in the crowd of people and bottles and the twinkle of Christmas lights Rick hasn’t gotten around to taking down. 

Beth must see him, too, because she’s making a beeline straight to him, Glenn on her heels. Daryl can’t make out what her brother-in-law’s saying to her, but the guy tosses him a sorta apologetic smile. 

_What?_ Daryl feels his brow furrow, and his hackles rise a little, too. That’s the instinct kicking in. The hell’s Glenn lookin’ at him like that for? 

Takes about a second for him to find out, when Beth starts closing in on him but doesn’t stop walking, just grabs a fistful of his shirt and yanks him along behind her. Only reason he doesn’t trip up is because he can think quick on his feet but, _Jesus_ , girl’s got some upper body strength to her, don’t she?

If he could, he’d pointedly ignore the thrill that shoots up his spine at the thought, but the damn thing’s enough to rattle his teeth. 

Behind them, Daryl hears Glenn say, “Good luck, man,” and even when the words get swallowed up by the music — Christ, is that Huey Lewis? Is Rick for fuckin’ real? — he _really_ doesn’t like the sound of them. 

He should probably get Beth’s attention, ask her what the fuck she thinks she’s doing, but if he’s honest with himself — and Daryl can’t help _but_ , ‘cause it’s the most surefire way to be self-deprecating, and he’s nothing if not that — he kinda… likes it, her manhandling him like this, and — god damn it, he’s only had three beers, his train of thought can’t seriously be taking off like this, but then again Beth’s perfectly rounded, rose-gold fingernails just pinched into his chest as she drags him down the hall, and that shouldn’t have felt as good as it did and now he’s _panicking_ , of fuckin’ _course_ he is —

He’s too wrapped up to notice much when Beth stops walking, but then she’s shoving him through a door before he can do anything about it, anyway, and the lock clicks behind her and they’re absolutely bathed in darkness and quiet, save for the muffled notes of the stereo system and their own ragged breathing.

“Beth, what the _fuck_ —” Daryl blinks, and his vision adjusts enough to make out her silhouette, small and sleek and she’s got her hands on her hips like she’s pissed at him, like _he’s_ the one who went and locked them in a — in a — 

“Girl, did you just push me into a goddamn _closet_?”

She’s not listening. That, or she just doesn’t care to respond to his _very_ fuckin’ reasonable question because, apparently, hers is more goddamn _pressing_. 

“Daryl Dixon” — and she pokes him in the chest, too, on purpose this time — “what the _hell_ is your problem?”

* * *

Beth can hardly see a damn thing in here, but she doesn’t need to get a good look at Daryl’s face to know that she’s burning through his short fuse, and fast. No, _that_ comes through loud and clear in his voice when he snaps, “The hell’s _my_ problem? I ain’t the one who hauled off an’ tossed _your_ ass into a fuckin’ closet, Jesus _Christ_.” 

If Beth wasn’t already spitting fire, then the tone Daryl’s taking with her certainly would have set her off. She neatly sidesteps the fact that he’s only taking that tone with her at all because of something _she_ did. “You leave my ass outta this, Dixon, an’ mind your damn manners while you’re at it.”

Daryl makes a noise that’s not unlike a snarl, like something you’d hear out of the throat of an angry wildcat, and hell if it doesn’t make the hair on the nape of Beth’s neck stand on end. “Yeah, I’ll mind my damn manners. Soon as you watch your _fuckin’_ mouth.” 

She opens her _fuckin’ mouth_ to tell him… something — she’s not sure what, but probably where he can stick it — only to change her mind at the last minute and snap it back shut, because actually? She _does_ want to see his face while they do this, and more importantly, she wants him to see _hers_. So she gropes for the light switch, slapping her palm against a bare stretch of wall for a good ten seconds before belatedly remembering that actually, there _isn’t_ a light switch in this closet. Just a bare bulb with a pull string.

“Shit,” she mumbles, batting her hand in front of her face like she’s swatting at cobwebs. Where’d that damn thing _go_? 

Daryl must see her doing it — and his eyes must’ve adjusted faster than hers, which just _figures_ — because he asks, still sounding kinda pissed but mostly just confused, “The hell you doin’?”

“S’bulb in here,” she explains, not quite yet sobered up enough to care about how stupid she must look fumbling at thin air. “Tryna find the pull string.”

Daryl mutters something ornery sounding under his breath, and then there’s a click and a burst of light that makes Beth blink and reel back. Would’ve probably fallen flat on her ass and bruised herself on the Oreck vacuum, too, if not for Daryl grabbing her forearm to steady her.

He swears creatively when he does it, but his hold is gentle. Like he’s going out of his way not to hurt her.

She’d probably be moved by the care this rough man takes with her, if she wasn’t so _pissed_. 

Daryl’s touch doesn’t linger, anyway, and he retreats as soon as he’s certain that she’s not about to tip over and give herself a concussion. He sticks both hands in his pockets and looks her up and down — but not in a sexy way, unfortunately — and something like epiphany dawns in his eyes.

They’re real pretty, those eyes. It’d probably annoy the hell out of him if she told him so. 

“Girl —” Daryl’s nostrils flare, and those pretty eyes narrow. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, are you _hammered_ right now?”

Shit. This isn’t how this conversation was supposed to go. “Uh.”

Daryl drags his hands out of his pockets and crosses his arms, affecting a pose that strikes Beth as terribly familiar because, oh, _right_ , this is how Glenn looked when he caught her in the kitchen. Beth could’ve gone her whole life without making that comparison, because the last thing she wants is for Daryl to treat her, let alone _think of her_ , as some kinda annoying little sister. She’d rather him hate her guts than see her in _that_ way.

“How much you have to drink?”

People keep asking her that. “Iunno. More than I shoulda, I guess.” Her mouth tips into a wry, sloppy smile. “Prob’ly not enough to get _you_ drunk.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I ain’t a fuckin’ lightweight.” Daryl, by all appearances, is toweringly unamused. So much for lightening the mood — and, hey, since when _did_ she want to lighten it? She resolves to stay angry for the rest of this conversation — until he apologizes for ruining her night, anyway. “Jesus, girl, the hell’d your daddy think’a this shit, huh?”

Low blow. People keep doling those out tonight. “Shut up,” Beth mumbles, crossing her arms over her stomach and slumping back against the door, not to keep him in here or anything, because he could physically pick her up and move her out of his way if he wanted, all without breaking a sweat — but just because she needs the support in more ways than one.

Although, actually, she wouldn’t say no to Daryl manhandling her in a different context. Pin in that.

“What I say ‘bout watchin’ your mouth, huh?” The worn leather of Daryl’s jacket creaks when he uncrosses his arms. He really _did_ just get here only a little while ago, if he hasn’t even taken it off yet. Guess now would be a good time to do it, since they’re in a closet and all. “Swear to god, girl, you’re damn lucky your sister ain’t seen you like this.”

Beth smirks, just a little. People keep telling her that, too. “How you know she ain’t?”

“‘Cause you wouldn’ be here if she had, that’s fuckin’ how.”

She’s not sure if he means _wouldn’t be here_ like _wouldn’t be at this party_ or _wouldn’t be here_ as in _wouldn’t be on this mortal coil_. Either way, it’s accurate. 

“Yeah, you’re prob’ly right.” _Definitely_ right, but she’s not feeling generous enough to admit it. Mostly what she’s feeling is uncomfortably sober, which doesn’t even make any damn sense, because Daryl was right; she _is_ a lightweight. “Y’know, it’s _your_ fault I’m like this in the first place.” 

Daryl’s forehead crumples, and his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for the pack of Marlboros he’s definitely got stashed away somewhere. Or maybe he just wants to throttle her. Probably that one. 

“The fuck’s that s’posed to mean?” Daryl raises his voice a little, maybe ‘cause she’s pissing him off, maybe just to be heard over the sudden swell in the music playing outside. And, jeez, is that KC and the Sunshine Band? Who curated this playlist? “I just fuckin’ got here, an’ I sure as shit didn’ put a damn bottle in your hand.”

“No, but you might as _well’ve_.” Daryl frowns harder, fingers twitching faster, and Beth sighs, more long-suffering than pissed. So much for holding onto her anger. “You ruined my damn night, y’know that?”

“Like hell I did.”

“Like hell you _didn’t_.” Beth levels a finger at his face, and this closet’s small enough that it just about brushes the tip of his nose. “You — ”

Daryl’s eyebrows arch, and his mouth twitches. “Yeah? What? G’on, spit it out.”

She drops her hand, the cogs in her brain turning in frantic circles as she gropes for something appropriately awful to call him. She’s still just tipsy enough to settle on something as ridiculous as, “You big dumb _Fraggle_.”

Beth’s never seen anybody blink that many times in such quick succession before. She thinks this might be the moment where he actually physically moves her aside and just walks out, but then he says, “The fuck’s a Fraggle?”

Beth’s mouth pops open. Did he seriously just — ?

No, yeah. He did.

Oh, Jesus. This is just too much. She collapses into giggles, arms tightening against her stomach as she rocks forward onto her toes and back onto her heels, and the completely flummoxed look Daryl gives her only sets her off _again_ just as she’s started to calm down. It’s not even the alcohol that’s making her act this way, she doesn’t think — the whole thing’s just _that_ ridiculous.

 _The fuck’s a Fraggle?_ She’s pretty sure she’s never heard a funnier sentence in her entire _life_. She swallows a hiccup, straightens up and wipes tears — honest to god tears of hilarity — from the corners of her eyes. Daryl’s looking at her like she’s grown a second head, which is fair. She’d probably be looking at herself that way, too. 

“A Fraggle’s, um.” She gulps back another fizzy bout of laughter. “It’s a kinda Muppet. You, uh. You look a lil’ bit like one.” 

Daryl’s face promptly collapses into a scowl. “Fuckin’ — thanks, I guess?”

“You’re welcome,” Beth says very sincerely, and Daryl scowls harder. Riding the high of her laughter — because screw it, right? — she draws on her courage and adds, “But, like. A _cute_ Fraggle.”

It could just be the lighting, but she thinks Daryl’s face is turning red. “What.”

She could backtrack. Could make an excuse about drinking too much, and Daryl would probably buy it. Even if he didn’t, he’d _pretend_ to.

But. It’s like she said.

Screw it.

“You heard me.” She can feel a very small smile dawning on her face, and this time, she doesn’t bother trying to douse it. “I was gonna, um. I was gonna ask you out, y’know? S’why I was drinking. For, uh. Liquid courage, I guess. And it’s why I was pissed at you for bein’ so late. I was afraid you wouldn’t show up at all.”

Daryl’s hands are clenched at his sides. Yeah, it’s definitely not the lighting that’s making him turn that color. He opens his mouth, but no sound comes out.

And. The thing is. 

She can smell him. Hell, _all_ she can smell is him. Leather, tobacco smoke, sweat and musk — it’s all filling this small, close space, plugging up her nose like cologne and rolling across her tongue, headier than an entire bottle of champagne. Beth wants to drench herself in that smell. Wants to drench herself in _him_.

For the third time tonight, she thinks, _Screw it._

Feeling more clear-headed than she has all night, Beth closes the last bit of distance between them, shoves up onto her toes, and kisses Daryl very gently on the corner of his mouth. 

* * *

Look, there’s a lot of shit that Daryl doesn’t know, and he’s mostly fine with that, because it’s shit he doesn’t really _need_ to know.

He doesn’t need to know what the hell a Fraggle is. Some kinda… Muppet, whatever, he’s pretty sure he was supposed to be offended by that, but Beth ain’t _mean_ , and anyway she said he was cute. Which, actually, probably should have pissed him off, too, only it _didn’t_. 

He doesn’t need to know why she said that, either. Girl made it clear enough, didn’t she? _I was gonna ask you out._ Must be that she likes him, that she feels the same way about him that he does about her, which is a fuckin’ _trip_ , alright, but he’s not about to question it. 

He doesn’t need to know what time it is, because he can guess, because maybe Beth pushed him backwards into a closet out of the way of the party, but he can still hear everyone out in the front room, shouting about the countdown, and then it’s a whole chorus of voices and party poppers kickin’ up a racket.

_TEN!_

Dang, he _did_ get here late, didn’t he? No wonder Beth wants to kick his ass. He woulda fucked right outta here if she wasn’t around, so he can’t blame her for doin’ what she did, even if the closet’s cramped and smells like mothballs and, more and more every second, like her perfume. 

_NINE!_

He knows what that perfume smells like, soft and sweet and somethin’ like wildflowers. He knows she likes to paint her nails bright and pretty, like the way she laughs. He knows her favorite things are singing and making people feel good and pissing him the hell off — but not really, not like he’s ever actually mad at her — and he doesn’t need to know a whole lot else, does he?

_EIGHT!_

Or, at least, he didn’t _think_ he did, ‘til suddenly he learned what her mouth feels like pressed up against his. 

He didn’t know that before, and he really, _really_ fuckin’ needed to. 

_SEVEN!_

But what he does need to know, too, before he kisses her back like he thought about doing in the first place, is —

“Hold up a second,” he mumbles but, _god_ , her lips are sticky with champagne, and his voice chokes up all scratchy in his throat. He cups Beth’s elbow and nudges her away, just a little. “Drunk off your skinny ass, ain’t you?”

He doesn’t want that, doesn’t want to do this if neither of them’s gonna remember it, doesn’t wanna do this if he doesn’t know that _Beth_ wants to for real. 

_SIX!_

But she rolls her eyes, and a smirk tugs at the corner of her mouth that’d touched his. Her eyes are a little bloodshot, her pupils wide, but he’s sure he looks just the same and he _knows_ he ain’t drunk, so maybe she’s thinking clear on her feet, too.

_FIVE!_

She tucks her bottom lip between her teeth, like she’s trying to bite back a smile, and god damn it if Daryl’s eyes don’t track that movement, all hungry and needy, like a man obsessed. 

( _Possessed._ Whatever. Same fuckin’ difference, in this case.)

“Think I sobered up alright when you asked me what the fuck a Fraggle is,” she says, and tries not to giggle when she does.

_FOUR!_

Daryl’s teeth gnash when he scowls at her. “What’d I say about watchin’ your fuckin’ mouth, huh?”

“My mouth was nice an’ quiet just a second ago,” Beth points out. “Not my fault you interrupted me before things could get interestin’.”

_THREE!_

Now it’s Daryl rolling _his_ eyes. But, y’know, if she’s good, that’s good enough for him. 

_TWO!_

“Smartass,” he mutters, and yanks her back towards him, into his chest, and seals his mouth over hers.

Vaguely, he registers the noise coming from down the hall, shouts and whistles and cheers, but it ain’t nothin’ compared to the fireworks goin’ off in his head when Beth’s lips part and she laughs right into his mouth. 

She tastes like sugar and bubbles and like maybe New Year’s resolutions ain’t so stupid, after all. Or maybe they’re worth how stupid they are, at least, so long as you make good on them. Or maybe —

Nah. Fuck it. Ain’t no _maybe_ about how good it feels to know Beth Greene owns his ass. Forget the new year, ‘cause Daryl’ll ring in every goddamn _day_ just like this, if she wants to, too.

His hand slides from her elbow, up her arm, then around her waist to grasp her hip, to tug her in closer and take the kiss deeper. He’s flirting with the better part of a buzz here, his head’s spinnin’, but fuck the beers he chugged out in the garage, he thinks it’s got a helluva lot more to do with Beth tripping on his toes and smothering another laugh against his greedy mouth. 

Beth tugs at his jacket, pushes it off his shoulders ‘til he’s gotta shake it off his arms himself. She’s still laughing when it gets stuck on his wrists, and he can’t help but huff one of his own into the sloppy rhythm of the kiss. He has to let her go to free himself of the leather sleeves, but his mouth doesn’t leave hers for a second of it, and he snatches her right back up when the jacket falls to a heap at their tangled feet. 

“Fuckin’ pain in the ass,” he mutters, the words muffled against her lips. He inhales sharply when Beth sucks on his tongue, groans deep from his chest right down into her throat, and decides then and there to shut the fuck up so she’s got free rein to do whatever the hell she wants with him. 

Which works out pretty well, seein’ as how he can taste her smile the whole time they’re kissing. 

One arm stays locked firmly around her waist, while his free hand tracks up to follow the curve of her hip bone, up the ridges of her spine, ‘til it can slide over her shoulder to her jaw. He cups her face, thumb pressed to her chin to coax her lips further apart, so he can lick into her mouth and lap up every last drop of champagne that got left behind. 

Her fingers curl into his hair and _tug_ , just like she’d done when she dragged him into this closet, just like she had when she urged his coat off, and it makes him stumble half a step into her, so they fall back against the locked door. She moans, soft but eager, when his chest presses flush to hers, and her back arches like they’re still not close enough and, damn it, but Daryl’s gotta agree. 

“We gonna stay in here all night?” Beth wants to know, voice gone all breathy when Daryl finally lets her up for air to busy himself with the line of her throat instead. She moans again, sharp like a gasp, high like one of those church hymns she sings on Sundays, when he sucks a mark behind her ear. 

“Mm-huh,” he breathes ragged into her neck, ‘cause he can’t be bothered too much with talking when his mouth’s got better things to do. Beth’s a little thing, sure, but she’s still got miles of skin for him to explore, soft curves and jagged edges, freckles on her legs and those dimples on her lower back, _Christ_ — 

“Wanna do ev’rything with you,” he tells her, the words all roughed up and raw, but she hears them just fine. 

Must, because her hands come undone from around his shoulders to hold his face, palms chafing against his scruff, so she can make him look at her — at those big bright kinda bloodshot eyes, that crinkle up faintly at the corners when she smiles at him some more and, damn it, but is he ever gonna get enough of that smile?

“Me, too,” she says, and she catches his mouth with hers all over again, not like a tease this time but with _intent_ , like she’s the one who plans on keeping them locked up in a hall closet all night. 

Like he’d ever complain about _that_.

What he _is_ gonna complain about — rightfully, too, _justly_ , even — is when the door rattles on its hinges, and it’s not ‘cause he’s pushing Beth up against it and making her squirm while he’s got his head between those freckled legs. 

Those real _sturdy_ freckled legs, by the way, and fuck yeah does he want to get them trembling and clamping down hard around his ears, but he doesn’t even get half the chance to do that, because the closet door’s rattling ‘cause someone’s knocking on the other side of it. 

“Uh — hey, guys?”

Fucking Glenn, god damn it. Second worst thing to Maggie finding Daryl suckin’ on Beth’s neck like an unhinged vacuum cleaner. Not like Glenn would try to kick his ass or nothin’, but the guy can’t keep his mouth shut to save his life; Maggie’s gonna know about this in point-two seconds. Might as well light up that cigarette while he’s at it. 

_“Guys,”_ Glenn reiterates, with a bit more urgency when neither of them responds. Nah, Daryl just kisses Beth harder and hopes that all her good deeds will save them from any potential divine wrath or whatever. “I’m supposed to grab Maggie’s sweater, okay, and if I’m not back there in about ten seconds she’s gonna swoop in here and find out just what the hell you two are up to —”

“Fuckin’ — fuck _off,_ Rhee,” Daryl grumbles, loud enough that Glenn can hear him, but not so much so that he’s distracted from pulling another moan from Beth’s mouth into his own.

“Christ, it’s the green cowl neck, alright, just throw it out here unless you wanna get murdered.”

Daryl’s mouth shapes itself into a frown against Beth’s. He pulls away, hands squeezing her hips comfortingly, but his brow pinched in confusion as he looks at her for an explanation. 

“The _fuck’s_ a cowl neck?”

Another stream of near-hysterical giggles escapes Beth at that. He doesn’t know what the hell’s so funny — maybe she’s still a little toasted — but he didn’t know what was so funny about the fuckin’ Fraggle thing, either, and she wound up kissing him, so maybe not knowing what the hell’s wrong with this girl ain’t such a bad thing. 

“Here —” Beth reaches behind him, her giggly breath tickling his ear as she goes, and yanks something from one of the hangers. “It’s this one, I got it for her for Christmas.”

“Great, whatever.” Actually, that was real sweet of her, but right now Daryl’s got a single-minded obsession with keeping all that sweetness to himself, so… 

He nabs the sweater from her, and clicks open the door just enough to toss it out to Glenn before promptly kicking it right back shut. “Now fuck off, man, I mean it.”

“Dude” — Glenn swears under his breath, which would usually be funny if Daryl wasn’t trying to make out with the guy’s sister-in-law right now — “Maggie’s looking for Beth, too, and Rick’s looking for you. You guys gotta get back out here before I can’t keep my mouth shut anymore.”

“Surprised you lasted this long!” Beth snarks back. She’s kissing Daryl’s cheek when she says it, so she must feel the way it twitches when he smirks. 

“Don’t do this shit to me, Beth, come on,” Glenn pleads. “I’m the father of your godchild.”

“Okay, okay.” She nudges Daryl back, cuts off his protesting whine (like hell he’d ever admit it was a whine, though) with a quick kiss, “We’re comin’, alright, gimme five seconds.”

Daryl’s pretty sure he hears Glenn snort some kinda incredulous _yeah, right_ , but he leaves them be, which means Daryl’s got five more seconds with Beth to make good on.

“Hey, uh.” He chucks her underneath the chin, so she’ll turn that smile up at him. Her cheeks are pinker than he’s ever seen them, even at the height of summer, and she’s lookin’ at him like he’s a pool of clear cool water. “That thing you said, ‘bout askin’ me, uh —”

“About askin’ you out?” Beth prompts when he trips over the words. Sorta used up all his own liquid courage bein’ alone with her, so now he’s gone and got all tongue-tied again. “Yeah, duh, I know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“Alright, smartass.” Daryl tugs on the ends of his hair her fingers have been wrapped around. Licks the sudden dryness off his lips as he looks at her. “So, uh. You wanna?”

She rolls her eyes, playful-like, and doesn’t leave him hanging, thank fuck, maybe he really should start goin’ to church, if his prayers are gonna keep getting answered like this. 

“Yeah.” That grin of hers widens, blinding even in the dim ugly light of the hall closet. Her hand slips down so she can fold her fingers up with his. “Yeah, Daryl, that’s pretty much what I’ve been after all night.”

And, okay, so he’s never been much for toothy smiles and shit himself, but Daryl’s gotta smother his own grin against Beth’s when he kisses her — just one more time, ‘cause they only got a couple more seconds before somebody else barges in — and he thinks that, yeah, alright, so maybe new year’s resolutions ain’t the worst idea he’s ever heard.


End file.
